3. The Outside World
Three
The Outside World
For what seemed like forever, glimmers of sunlight pushed weakly through the plastic-covered windows, fractured and dull.
Addy blinked against the dim light, her eyes heavy with the kind of sleep that didn’t rest anything.
For a brief moment, she nearly imagined it was morning on an ordinary day, prior to the world falling quiet.
But reality set in.
The air was bitterly cold, the kind that seeped into her bones and clung to her skin no matter how she moved.
The faint odor of death, sweet, metallic, and wrong, hung in the corners of the room; stronger now that the temperature had dropped overnight.
Her stomach twisted, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten since the night before.
She sat up slowly; the blanket falling away from her shoulders, and took a long breath that burned in her throat. Her breath fogged in the air. It was colder than she’d realized.
The faint gray-yellow light filtering through the taped plastic made everything look sickly and distorted. Her reflection shimmered there for a fleeting moment—pale, hollow-eyed, wrapped in layers of shadows.
Addy pushed herself up and crossed the room; every movement seemed deliberate and heavy. She reached for her bag, checked that it was still packed, and turned her attention to the small stack of remaining supplies. A few bottles of water. Two energy bars. A nearly empty package of wipes.
She tore one out, the cold dampness startling against her skin as she wiped her face, her neck, her hands, between her legs; doing her best to feel human again, even if it was only an illusion.
She caught her reflection again in the dull metal of the sink faucet, hair a tangled mess, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, and almost laughed. It was either that or cry.
“Morning,” she muttered to no one. Her voice sounded small in the quiet.
When she finished, she layered her clothes: thick socks, worn jeans, a thermal shirt, a sweater, coat. Everything she had that might hold warmth. She knew that once they stepped outside, it would be much colder—especially if Sawyer’s car plan didn’t work out.
She tugged on her boots and flexed her fingers in her gloves then into mittens, testing how much she could still move. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Addy looked around the apartment one last time: the overturned chair, the taped windows, the notepad still open on the counter with her last words scrawled across the page: We are still here.
Her chest tightened. She wanted to take it with her, but somehow it seemed right to leave it behind, like proof she’d been there, that she’d lasted this long.
She zipped up her coat, slung the backpack over her shoulder, and took a long breath.
“Okay,” she whispered. “Let’s see what’s left of the world.”
The sound of her voice faded into the stillness, and she turned toward the wall that separated her from Sawyer, ready to knock.
Addy hesitated, her hand hovering above the wall. The silence on the other side seemed heavier this morning, as if the building itself was holding its breath. She gave a quick knock, three soft taps.
A pause. Then, faintly, a response.
“Are you awake?”
Relief washed through her, almost dizzying. “Yeah,” she said, her voice catching. “You?”
“Still here.” The sound of shifting came through the wall, wood creaking, metal scraping. “Are you ready?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” she said, which wasn’t saying much. Her hands trembled, and she shoved them into her coat pockets.
“Good,” he said. “Meet me in the hall in ten. Bring everything you’ve got.”
Her heart kicked. “The hall?”
“I’ll check it first,” he said. “If it’s clear, we move.”
And just like that, the conversation was over. Footsteps moved away from the shared wall, fading toward his door. Addy stood there for a moment, frozen.
Ten minutes. After weeks of isolation, fear, and waiting, ten minutes was all that stood between her and whatever was left of the outside world.
She double-checked her bag again, even though she knew everything was already in it. Her fingers brushed over the photo of her mother, the worn edge of the notebook, the cold metal of her flashlight. Little anchors of a life that didn’t exist anymore.
When the time came, she unlocked the deadbolt with shaking fingers. The sound was too loud, echoing in the small apartment. She faltered, hand on the knob, and for an instant, almost lacked the will to do it.
Then came the faint creak of another door down the hall.
“Addy,” Sawyer’s voice called quietly. “It’s clear.”
She swallowed hard and turned the knob. The door gave a reluctant groan as it opened, the stale air of the hallway rushing in. It was colder there, damp, sharp; carrying the scent of mildew and something faintly chemical.
For a moment, her eyes struggled to adjust to the dim light filtering through the cracked skylight above. The corridor that once held soft footsteps and chatter was empty now. Doors stood half-open, dark and silent.
And after that, she saw him.
Sawyer stood a few feet away, tall and solid in his dark coat, a duffel slung over one shoulder.
He looked as if he’d been carved out of the same hard lines that shaped the world outside—broad-shouldered, rough around the edges, steady in a way that made the surrounding air seem a little less fragile.
His hair was dark and uneven, as if he’d cut it himself with a dull knife purely to keep it out of his eyes.
His face was angled and strong, the kind of rugged that came from a life that had knocked him down more than once.
A crooked nose told its own story, broken at least once, possibly twice; and faint scars traced along his jaw like old map lines.
The world had beaten him up, but he’d learned how to hit back.
Up close, she observed his meticulous attention to everything: the hallway, the doors, and even the ceiling. Every sound made his head tilt slightly, as if he were cataloging threats she didn’t even hear.
“Ready?” he asked.
Addy hesitated, her heart thudding. And she nodded once. “Yeah.”
Sawyer gave a small nod in return, turning toward the stairwell. The dim light caught the side of his face as he spoke quietly over his shoulder.
“Stay close. Don’t look too long at anything you don’t have to.”
And together, they stepped into the gray world waiting beyond the stairwell door.
* * *
The stairwell door groaned as Sawyer pushed it open. A wave of cold air rushed in, sharp and biting, carrying with it the stale tang of smoke and rot. Addy recoiled when it struck her, a foul scent so dense it felt palpable with the underlying rot. She gagged.
Light spilled through the doorway, soft and wintry.
The sky above the parking lot was overcast; the clouds were heavy and low, hanging like a lid over the world.
The faintest glow of pale sun pressed through now and then, blurring across the haze that clung to the ground, a mix of frost, wood smoke, and the stench of rotting trash piled against the curbs.
Sawyer stepped out first, scanning the lot with that same practiced precision, his gloved hand resting lightly on the strap of his duffel. Addy followed a few steps behind, boots crunching softly against a thin crust of ice that glittered faintly in the light.
The town she remembered was gone.
The small brick storefronts across the street stood hollow and dark, windows broken or fogged with grime.
The diner where she used to grab coffee before work was nothing more than a burnt-out shell, its sign swinging loosely in the wind.
Cars sat abandoned at odd angles, doors left ajar, tires half-deflated. Everything was still.
Even the wind sounded different: thin, restless, whistling through empty doorways and shattered glass.
Addy’s chest tightened as she looked around. She remembered kids riding bikes down that same street, the aroma of fried eggs and coffee drifting from the diner, the cheerful hum of normal life. Now all of it seemed impossibly far away.
“This is…” she started, but the words caught in her throat. “
“Dead,” Sawyer said quietly. His tone wasn’t cruel, but steady, as if he’d already accepted it. “It’s been this way for a while. The virus hit fast. People panicked. Tried to run, but…” He gestured toward the scattered cars, the open doors, the silence. “They didn’t make it.”
Addy swallowed, her breath fogging the inside of her mask. The cold air made her lungs ache. She hadn’t realized how loud quiet could be until now; it pressed in from all sides, thick and suffocating.
She wanted to ask him if he’d been sick, if possibly he’d survived it somehow, or if he was like her: untouched, inexplicably lucky, and afraid to question why. But the words caught in her throat, and instead her thoughts slipped backward.
She could still remember that first strange morning.
* * *
School had just started again, the beginning of another September—new notebooks, new faces, the familiar routine.
She’d been running late, coffee forgotten on the counter, hair still damp as she dashed into the store to grab disinfectant wipes for her classroom.
Half the kids had come down with colds that week, and she wanted to be prepared.
The news had been reporting on the severe flu season this year.
The store seemed off the moment she stepped inside.
Shelves half-empty. People filling carts as if a storm were coming.
The sound of coughing—wet, desperate. She’d caught sight of a man slumped against a display of paper towels, his skin waxy and gray, a woman trying to hold him upright as he muttered something she couldn’t understand.
Someone sneezed behind her, loud and sudden. She’d jumped, heart racing, rushing to pay and get out, the bottle of disinfectant still clutched in her shaking hand.
By the time she reached school, the parking lot had been nearly empty. Only a few cars. Only two students were waiting in her classroom, their eyes wide and uncertain. Then the announcement came over the intercom—